


the time and speaking tide

by auxanges, pencilpal, thescyfychannel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Love Letters, M/M, Pirates, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22543042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/pseuds/auxanges, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pencilpal/pseuds/pencilpal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: This letter was the 234th, a fact that Aziraphale knew, even if he wished he didn't.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	the time and speaking tide

**Author's Note:**

> Our first foray into GO fic, with beautiful art from [Mio!](http://esmiora.tumblr.com/) This collab was a long effort and everyone did a great and hip job
> 
> ABOUT THE FORMAT: both authors wrote the letters and sections for their respective characters (aux for Crowley, scy for Aziraphale) and ONLY let the other writer read the letters. The in-between snippets were revealed later. Very sexy and avant-garde of us if you ask me
> 
> Thank you to the BB mods for organizing!!!

The pirate's latest letter is in a heap with the first—and the second through somethingeth, a number Aziraphale had given up on tracking the moment it passed 100. [1] Usually the bundle was tied up with several neat, dark red ribbons, and shoved into an inconspicuous drawer on one side of his writing desk. Today both necessity and his Queen dictated that he make good on the connections that these letters seemed to imply—the exact same connections that he would much prefer people forget about entirely.

Simply put: As time passed, Aziraphale had _assumed_ the Incident would fade from the mind of the public. Such had certainly been the case with every other royal scandal on or above the level of one noble's son kidnapping another en route to his grand entrance onto the piratical stage. For whatever reason, though, the House of Aziraphale's Time of Great Shame [2] came up at least once a month or so for the past eight years. The longest streak of non-mentions was a solid forty-four days before someone had made an oblique reference to the event (he'd long before decided that counting every mention of a mention that he heard about after the fact would be yet another signpost on the road to madness), and really, he ought to have known that the next time he would come remotely close to beating that record, something horrible would happen.

Like being asked to provide some sort of a distraction for the Dread Pirate Crowley in the months leading up to the arrival of several foreign delegations for a Royal Ball. Like that. Exactly like that.

He was damned and doomed and really, if he didn't already have several things he was blaming Crowley for before this, he definitely had them now.

So it all added up to this. The latest letter, and the other letters sent—he had pulled all of them out of their hiding place in some vain attempt to gather inspiration, a desperate last hope to fuel his pen with anything but his own half-repressed thoughts on the subjects of Crowley and distractions—spread across every polished inch of his desk, page upon page of Crowley's left-slanting script all but taunting him with, with _fondness_ and _pet names_ and a million other intimacies he had never agreed to, and—

Gods damn it. That was another page ruined with rambling and ranting. He was really going to have to look into a secretary to dictate this kind of thing to, or at least, he would have thought about looking into one were it not for the fact that he was far too embarrassed about writing these letters to even let himself consider showing them to anyone else. "I am truly not cut out for this," Aziraphale mumbles to himself, shoving the ruined paper aside and grabbing at the latest piece of correspondence, hoping for some kind of insight into the mind of one Anthony J. Crowley, formerly of the House of Crowley.

[1] This letter was the 234th, a fact that Aziraphale knew, even if he wished he didn't.

[2] The particular title used for this event in any given conversation depended entirely upon who you asked. Anyone but Aziraphale would have told you it was the most hilarious (and possibly best) thing to happen to those stuffed up ponces since the current monarchy was formed. He blamed Crowley for it. That damn pirate's continuing attention was obviously the only reason anyone would bother to care about what had or hadn't happened between them.

* * *

Angel, [3]

I trust this letter finds you well. I say “trust” here because there is no doubt in my mind that the ostentatious layers of tailor-made eye horror your staff have the bollocks to refer to as clothing serve as enough padding to keep you away from any real harm. Some interloper could defenestrate your frilly little arse and you’d walk away without so much as a curl out of place.

But I’m getting away from myself. Paper is expensive. [4]

We made landfall about a week ago for a restock and a morale booster. You know morale, right? That thing you claim to know about, but were in embarrassing shortage of at our last engagement. Maybe you would have been in higher spirits somewhere like our last port of call. (The joke here is that the moors are haunted. You would definitely have chuckled. Maybe. Ah, well. Had to be there, etc.)

I digress. You could have loved it. All the dried and boiled leaves you could ever drink, Angel. Ladyfingers and amuses-bouches until you lost some shiny buttons. It could have been a sight for the ages. Who am I kidding? It still was. Just missing a few friendly faces.

Speaking of friendly faces, I forgot to thank you for the copy of the KNOWN PIRATES poster you sent me in your last letter. Has Her Majesty been siphoning arts funds from the fleet budget? The shading on my jaw is flattering, at any rate. Vanity is only a minor sin and I will hear nothing of it until I up my game on major ones.

Give my regards to everyone who wants me dead, as usual. Fair winds, Angel.

A.J. Crowley

[3] Formalities are Crowley’s least favourite part of letters. They were also one of his least favourite parts of the diplomatic lifestyle, all the “sirs” and “my lords” and “your graces” getting stuck in his teeth until his jaw ached with the clenching and unclenching. He does not miss them. Nicknames, in this regard, are an acceptable loophole, especially when toeing the line between endearing and ironic with gymnastic prowess.

[4] It’s not expensive. He pilfered this particular stack from a surprisingly educated crew of merchants some months ago and has been debating over whether to use it for correspondence at all, or just as statement pieces. The decision was made when the only statement he figured might come up was “Crowley, why the hell do you have so much paper in your cabin?”

* * *

"Nothing for it," Aziraphale mutters, and sets himself down properly to write. He budgets himself an hour for the task, unwilling to waste any time more than the past three days of confusion and consternation than he's already spent—and tries not to consider what it means when he finishes the thing in just barely fifteen minutes.

It's far from his best work and Aziraphale knows it, but Crowley's never been one to ignore a challenge. Things that might be construed as Aziraphale pouting at a lack of attention, or, for that matter, Aziraphale implying a chance for Crowley to court or impress him, are as catnip to the pirate. "Besides," he rationalizes, folding the letter into neat thirds and tucking it into an envelope while the wax for his seal heats, "looking for some sort of gift ought to keep him occupied for the time being."

* * *

Dear Pirate Crowley,

I hope the enclosed paper eases your difficulty in finding the necessary materials for a proper communique. Consider this your invitation to cease your efforts to illegally obtain supplies from Her Majesty's ships, and further, to stop commenting on my clothing. I have a specific style of dress, as you very well know, and I prefer to maintain it.

As for our last engagement, I would prefer never to speak of it again. The same goes for the one previous, and the one that set off this entire humiliating series of events. Regardless.

This letter is meant to inform you that Her Majesty the Queen is exasperated with you. Your recent attempts, your encroachments into the Kingdom's sovereign naval territory—they have become quite vexing, you know? I have no notion of why you think you'll continue to get away with such bad behaviour, and even less of an idea of why you think I'll keep writing to you.

It's not like you've been sending me any presents lately, after all.

Aziraphale, Head Noble of the House Aziraphale

* * *

“Taken to a diary, have you?” Hastur asks, leaning against the doorframe. His throat is lined with grease, and his insides, if Crowley were to hazard a guess, are much the same.

Crowley flips him off. “That would imply I had any thoughts worth keeping around for later.” 

“Pen pal, then. Surely not the little ponce from the Gates, Crowley, I was under the impression you were better than that.”

“Do you see my fingers in the air? The obscene ones?” He folds the letter once, twice, then tucks it in his coat pocket. He’s not a coat man, not really, but the sails are full of more than breezes this far out to sea, and he doesn’t run particularly warm to begin with. “You need a hobby other than breathing my air, Hastur.”

“I have one. It’s called pirating, maybe you’ve heard of it.” Hastur tosses him something, and Crowley catches it without thinking to identify it first. He’s caught his share of loaded guns in his time aboard the Eden with minimal incidents (half an eyebrow does not, in his book, count as an incident), and a sheathed knife is, all things considered, easy to grab in comparison. “Rigging won’t check itself. Cap’n appreciates being reminded why you have the position you do.” 

The crude gesture remains until Crowley is well out of Hastur’s line of sight, and then he lets himself exhale. 

The upward scale to the mizzen is not a very high one, which he’s grateful for. Strictly speaking, Crowley is not an acrophobe: back at the Gates, he would ease himself out of his window and onto the awning to watch the ships dock. Not long after his recruiting to the Eden, a careless step a little too far to the left and a missed handhold had led to an embarrassing tumble to the deck below, and the lingering aches in his upper back when he climbs the main remind him of old witches feeling storms in their knees. 

Whatever. Accidents happen, and he’s not one to linger on much he’s done. [6]

[6] It’s what he’s _not_ done that captures most of his attention.

* * *

Crowley's latest missive comes inside a crate, and the contents are enough to make Aziraphale's eyes gleam with something almost covetous—right up until the takes the time to actually read the letter enclosed.

* * *

Angel,

I must confess to a little preening upon hearing I’ve captured Her Majesty’s attention. Not to mention yours, of course, but if the steadily growing pile of letters in my chest is anything to go by, this is no surprise. I would call it a hope chest, but that would imply that 1) I dream of being someone’s blushing bride and 2) I believe in hope. [6]

I must apologize for the lack of tokens in recent correspondence with you, but your moral compass eliminates several candidates for souvenirs I can exchange. I would offer a lock of hair, but after our last tussle I’ve taken to cropping it a little too short for that. While I can’t guarantee the origins of the plants that offered these preserves and syrups, I can at least attest that their previous owners were only mildly inconvenienced in the process of their acquisition. Bon appétit, and all that. 

A.J. Crowley

P.S. You’ll have to catch me, first.

* * *

He hauls the crate up to the Queen's audience room himself, ignoring offers of help from several quarters, though they come less frequently once people start to recognize the look in his eyes. Battle-hardened is a better fit to Aziraphale than anyone who knows him from the most recent few years would have thought, and it's a sight for sore eyes to those who knew him from the few before. [7] By the time he actually arrives at his destination, he's unknowingly acquired both a train of curious onlookers and the distinct feeling that he really ought to be paying more attention to his surroundings. Both of these things (the train—parade, now, actually—and the lack of situational awareness) go completely against his own personal standards of propriety. Later, Aziraphale will put that down to the anger fuelling his decision-making processes and overriding any sense of self-awareness he might usually possess.

This is, in part, the reason he nearly kicks down the doors to the royal audience room while still hauling a not-inconsiderable amount of weight and shouts, "I am _not_ equipped to handle this!"

Unfortunately for Aziraphale, there are certain narrative conventions that the universe needs to uphold. For example, an entire room full of people going dead silent and turning to stare at this idiot who's done the social equivalent of walking into the _salle d'armes_ fifteen minutes late with a tavern brew.

His entire face goes a brilliant shade of crimson [8] and he has a moment to see the Queen's expression clear across the room—amused, tolerant, and just a hint of wicked humour about the eyes—before she tips her head in a Royal Nod, dons once more the Regal Look, and waves one Anointed Hand in a sweeping gesture. "We would request privacy for this meeting, loyal subjects. Our adjoining offices will do—anyone who is in dire need of Our counsel may wait here for Our return. Lord Aziraphale?"

He practically scurries—scurries! him, of all people—to the room the Queen had suggested, keeping his head tucked down as low as his collar will allow, the crate an afterthought in its grip, despite the reality of its weight. At least his clothes (the same outfits Crowley had recently mocked, his mind oh-so-unhelpfully reminds him) lend themselves to easily disappearing into a crowd of finery such as this.

By the time Aziraphale has crossed the room and arrived at Her Majesty's side office, the whispers have reached a volume better suited to the theatre, and Aziraphale's expression has settled somewhere between "pained" and "grim". Of all the indignities to come of being associated with Anthony J. Crowley, this was a highly unexpected and a deeply upsetting one, made all the worse by its novelty—and perhaps the fact that he'd technically been the one to bring it down upon his own head.

Her Majesty's presence is ever a balm to wounded pride, though. Queen of the Kingdom, the Ruler of the Gates, she was fair and just in her reign. Aziraphale's ancestors had been more than happy to take up sword and shield to serve her, and he could honestly say that he felt the same, a fact that couldn't be solely attributed to her remembering his favourite pastries to have with tea. [9]

The offending crate and its letter are dumped unceremoniously on the floor, and Aziraphale sweeps into the obeisance that custom dictates he ought to give his sovereign. "Really now," she says, amusement back in her eyes once more. "There's no need for that. Come, take a seat, have some tea, and tell me what he's done this time."

Part of him is well aware that Her Majesty is taking no small amount of (rather indecent, in his opinion) amusement from the current predicament that she's landed him in, but he's nothing if not one of her loyal subjects. Whatever plans she has, well—he's never been one to question them, even when they've seemed to be at their most...ineffable. It had always turned out fine in the end, after all, and that solid rock of faith is what has him reaching for the damned pirate's letter as he tries to get his own thoughts in order. "You said that you wanted me to distract him for a little while, to give you enough time to organize and host the Royal Ball, but this is—this is—"

"—beyond what you're equipped to handle?" The Queen sips her tea, calm as a winter day, as Aziraphale splutters. "I understand your concerns, Aziraphale, but the truth is that I simply can't agree. You're one of our realm's best fighters, much as you're loathe to take up your sword these days, and you have a knowledge of the pirate Crowley that no other member of my court could ever possess. You can do this, and what's more, the Crown _needs_ you to do this."

There's no way that he can acknowledge his own pouting without admitting defeat. Even if Her Majesty is right, that's the last thing he would want to admit to just yet. "But trying to ward him off only resulted in him stealing even more, my Queen. I have no idea what wild goose chase to send him on that would keep him from doing even more damage." He folds his hands in his lap, only easing up on the polite act when the letter clasped between them starts to crumple. There's a weight in his voice when he admits the other thing he's been avoiding so far, and he desperately hopes his Queen can't hear it. "He goes too fast for me."

The Queen stares at him for along moment, as if she's considering the very weight and measure of his soul. It's a testament to the steel of his family line that he does not look away, that he absolutely refuses to back down.

And then she smiles, benevolence in the extreme. "Have you ever considered," she says, setting her cup down, "going too fast for him?"

[7] Believe it or not, there was a damn good reason that Crowley had picked Aziraphale to kidnap, and it hadn't been the assumption that he would have made an easy mark. Being the only one on the training courts who could regularly rout Anthony with a sword had given the soon-to-be pirate a measure of respect for Aziraphale's skill, and a measure of hope that his attempt at "overenthusiastic recruitment" would land him a talented and loyal fighter.

[8] A hue so vivid it would later inspire a visiting seamstress to seek out the reddest possible dyes nature could provide, and subsequently spark a whole new trend in fashion.

[9] The pastries didn't hurt, though, a fact the Queen had been well aware of for generations on end of the Aziraphale line. Lord Aziraphale's sweet tooth came from somewhere, after all.

* * *

Anthony,

I appreciate the gift of preserves and syrup, and have enclosed some of the recipes that, in my fairly studied opinion, they would work best with. In the future I would ask that you refrain from sending me any stolen goods. They fail to sit well with my stomach, and even worse, my social standing in Her Majesty's court.

Speaking of Her Majesty—no, you have not captured Her attention. A fraction of it, I suppose, but no more than any other idiotic pirate sailing upon the high seas. I would assume that this information could be something of a consolation prize to you? Far be it for me to speculate on the mindset of an absolute madman, especially one who seems to think he's captured my attention. Punctual replies are the politeness of principalities, after all. I'd hate to be rude, even to you.

All that said and set aside, I am not entirely inclined to dismiss you out of hand. Your latest letter is proof that you are at least willing to listen to what I have to say, and perhaps if this trend continues, we could come to some sort of...friendly accord. I could see us re-exploring the friendship we had, once upon a time, if you were willing to return—but alas, given the actual likelihood of you accepting any sort of Royal Pardon and returning to Her Majesty's court, an actual friendship seems to be entirely out of the question.

A friendly accord, though.

Consider it.

Aziraphale, Head Noble of the House of Aziraphale

P.S. I haven't cut my hair that closely. Here. Proof.

* * *

The sun is almost down and Crowley is lounging on a pile of sailcloth, three sheets to the wind. [10] “This stuff is awful,” he comments to the equally smashed pirate beside him, raising the bottle before taking another swig. A grimace follows, for emphasis.

Beelzebub shrugs one shoulder. “It was either the awful stuff or the putrid stuff. Lesser of two evils, Crowley.” They pull at the _o_ in his name like a child with a fistful of hair. 

“I miss wine, Bee. Imagine. Wine!” 

“You’re disgusting.” 

“I’m in need of a change from all this,” Crowley counters, half-rolling, half-sitting into a more upright position. The bottle goes waving once more.

Beelzebub tries to swipe the bottle. Crowley zaps his fingers. “Money is tangible. Ransoms are tangible. Steel on steel, the whole lot. Not enough stimulation for you?”

 _No,_ thinks Crowley. _No, steel could never compare to what I mean._ Out loud, he says, “I mean something that doesn’t blow away with the next tide.”

The alcohol sours in the back of his throat. Beelzebub tunelessly mumbles some shanty or other until they fall asleep, and Crowley is left to stare up at the stars.

He can’t pick what he misses most about Aziraphale. No, that’s not entirely accurate—his answer changes almost daily. Some days, it’s his hands, wrapped around the hilt of a sparring weapon, coaxing an apothecary plant to unfurl its leaves. Others, it’s the glint of mischief in his eyes, blue-grey; the upward curve of his smile, mismatched at the corners; the glint of his teeth and the creases in his cheeks when he throws back his head and laughs.

Crowley sighs into the bottle, draining it the rest of the way before tossing it overboard for the fish to marvel at. It bounces off the railing before disappearing into the drink.

“Sorry,” he says, to no one who is there to listen, or tell him he’s not, and that he’s always been a terrible liar, really.

A poor lack of talent when it comes to piracy. Perhaps he can work on that.

Reaching into his shirt, Crowley tugs free the necklace he fashioned out of Aziraphale’s proof. A perfect lock of hair sits squarely over his sternum, and if he concentrates, he can pretend it follows the metronome of his heartbeat. In another life, such a gift would be worth a small fortune comparable to what the _Eden_ finds on little two-masters further south. To have a piece of someone like this would grant the user a thousand opportunities with the right ingredients, plus a couple hundred more Crowley is likely too narrow-minded to imagine.

His current trouble? It’s not the piece of the man he wishes he had.

He rubs the lock between his thumb and forefinger a couple times before tucking the necklace back out of sight—to be caught with something that powerful, let alone that _sentimental_ , is not exactly in any of his immediate plans. Out comes a folded stack of paper, and a retractable pen. Crowley is full of useless surprises and poorly-timed honesty, and they spill free from his loosened trains of thought, tangling together with the encouragement of lonely drink.

[10] For a turncoat terror of the seas, Crowley is not actually much of a drinker. For an impish boy of noble birth, he’s not much of a drinker, either, but frequently makes a game attempt to prove otherwise.

* * *

Aziraphale finds himself in an uncomfortable situation, not long after he's sent his latest letter. Talk has grown to an unaccountable degree, and he's faced with rampant speculation wherever he might go. Certain nobles and courtiers are in the know about his errand for the queen, but necessity has dictated that its purpose be kept secret from all the rest, which means that his life is once more grist for the gossip mill to grind.

He wouldn't mind it so much if...

No. He can't go down that road, not least because there are several separate roads his thoughts are trying to send him down. Instead of fussing, he settles on: _I wouldn't mind this so much if my mind weren't playing tricks on me like this_ , and hurries back to his quarters, correspondence in hand.

He also avoids commenting, via his thoughts or otherwise, on the fact that one particular letter in the packet he was holding was burning up in his hand.

The hasty meal he eats proves little distraction. For once in his life, he doesn't have it in him to savour the food on his table, [11] cleaning everything off his plate as quickly as possible and only briefly regretting his lack of foresight. If he had taken more time to eat, it would have meant a few more moments left before he had to throw himself back into this insanity.

"'Have you ever considered going too fast for him'," he mutters to himself, an almost mutinous look on his face. "This was an absolutely terrible idea, and I never should have taken Her Majesty's advice. Regardless of what that letter, says, it's—"

Then he stops, because now he has to ask himself how that sentence would have ended. It's what? It's over? Why should that matter, other than the failure to fulfill his Queen's request? It shouldn't, is the answer, but somehow it does. And aside from that, why would it be over? Because he was expecting Crowley to have scoffed at him? Because he was assuming the clip of hair he'd taken—proof, that he hadn't once more shorn it short—would be returned with an apologetic, "sorry, not interested in that" or something of the like? Or perhaps was he assuming that Crowley, once even a sliver of interest had been reciprocated, would turn his back and walk away entirely? Not even a letter left behind so much as a brief demand? Why did the thought of "never contact me again Aziraphale" hurt even more than the thought of leaving the letter unopened?

Ah. Right. Once more down the treacherous path do those such thoughts seem to lead.

"I'll open the damn thing and be done with it," he promises himself, and before any more of his courage is lost to his wilder thoughts, he does.

* * *

I’ve been thinking.

There’s no way in six hells you’re happy at the Gates, Angel. Not happy like I know you to be. When I reflect upon our brief years together before I was pressed aboard, I don’t see you prancing in your finery. I see you with your throat exposed, your shirtsleeves rolled up and your hands in the mud, wrist-deep, learning the plants from the roots. Do you remember those days? Sometimes I fear I’ll never be able to outsail them.

Your token is safe. [14] A symbol of this so-called accord of friendship you’ve staked for us. I agree friendship in its truest form is out of reach for the likes of our souls, but I must contest you on one point. You are really quite commendable at being rude.

I would tell you where our winds are taking us, but what with the modicum of interest Her Majesty has taken in me, I dare not reach for more than the fleeting crumbs of Imperial attention I’ve been handed, mere peon of the sea that I am. All the more time to remain, as ever,

Yours,

A.J. Crowley

* * *

Aziraphale rereads the letter three times before he lets himself consider replying to it.

Crowley has been forward before, has put the feelings he claims to have front and centre on the page so often that Aziraphale rather thinks he ought to be used to it by now, that some of the edges of wonder and shock that he feels each time he reads such blatant affection ought to have subsided beneath something else. Irritation, for example, or aggravation at the offers and thoughts. But it never has, and he's beginning to suspect that it never will, and all of that aside, this particular letter is a different beast entirely.

Crowley has never before been so raw.

He reads the letter a fourth time, fingertips tracing the edges of Crowley's signature like it might let him see through the madness and discover the truth. To what end—to hell with it, _why_ , why would Crowley behave like this? Why would someone who had left him so far behind pretend to know him?

" _Not happy like I know you to be_ ," he repeats to himself, and then finally something else seems to settle into his chest. It's not an unfamiliar feeling, but the intensity with which it burns is entirely another thing.

In all his life, Aziraphale cannot ever remember being so damn _angry_.

He writes his reply in a few short minutes, and doesn't even pretend to be bothered by the ink stains his bitter scrawl may have left behind. When he posts his reply, all he can think about is the strange circumstance behind his flicker of foreknowledge—even if he hadn't let himself say it aloud, he's sure that with the opening of that particular letter; with the posting of this latest one, it's over.

[11] A rare occurrence indeed. His politely worded request to the kitchens had reflected as much, citing a wish to have something warm and filling, whatever the head chef happened to have on hand, and had caused something of an uproar in the kitchen. It had been read out loud, to the growing horror of the assembled staff, and one of their number had been immediately dispatched to speak to the Queen. [12] Upon their wide-eyed and delighted return, news of Aziraphale's "assignment" spread through the staff like wildfire [13] and the general consensus tilted towards "the Queen is probably lying about this being a scheme to keep that Crowley boy busy because it's actually a scheme to put an end to all of that unresolved tension and get the two of them together".

[12] It's in a monarch's best interest to keep a happy staff, a fact the Queen of the Gates knew well. Her door was _always_ open, and she took more care with the truths she told and stories she constructed when speaking to a palace servant than she did with the nobility.

[13] Several betting pools were cashed in, renewed, and created.

[14] Crowley has never opted to expand on his definition of the word, here, mostly because safety aboard a pirate ship is as subjective as any interpretation can possibly be. It also comes from an abject refusal to express gratitude in written form, lest it be hung up like a poster somewhere at the Gates.

* * *

You have taken to familiarities that I had no intention to allow, and your presumptions are as inaccurate as they are distressing. Not happy like you know me to be? Are you truly so arrogant as to think that I would never change? You knew me years ago, in days you have been trying to "outsail" since the moment you left your rightful place.

Do whatever you like with my "token". You may forget the accord, and feel free to chase whatever Imperial attention you desire. You'll have no more from me.

* * *

The call from the nest goes out before Crowley has time to pocket the letter, let alone process its emotional weight. “Frigate!” 

It’s punctuated with a crack-whistle of cannon fire, and a healthy amount of shouting. Crowley grumbles at the timing under his breath, lamenting at the lack of five minutes to himself on this accursed heap of driftwood even as he straps into his sidearm. His tattoos itch to be used; the letter sits, folded six times and a little warm to the touch, in his left palm.

Above deck, smoke is already rising from the foreign vessel’s stern. Someone tosses him a rapier, and Crowley dips into a trained position to catch it before giving chase. 

The Eden’s crew is reputed for two things: their chaotic internal bickering, and their ability to somehow make it work in their favour. [15] It is evident here, with men pulling ropes taut and swinging overboard, guns and cantrips blazing. Crowley seizes the closest rope and takes a few steps back. Sparks crackle over his forearms, and he raises his sword hand to loose a warning bolt. The paper, tucked snugly between his palm and the grip of his sword, remains untouched; when Crowley leaps across to join the fray, cutting down every obstacle in his path, his mind is somewhere between its upset paragraphs, turning the meanings over until they and the ink are smudged with saltwater.

[15] While this is in no small part thanks to Crowley, he would argue it’s mostly thanks to his tendency to replace dice with witchfire stones during arguments. He was, as a result, won several.

* * *

~~Angel~~ ~~Aziraphale~~ Angel,

I would say I’m not good with apologies, but my childhood record may precede me here. Matters of the heart require a delicate hand, and while I’m good with my hands, I have a tendency towards destruction thereof. Not much delicate out here at sea.

I’m not afraid of much. I have you to thank in part for that, I suppose, as my fear of heights lessened on our childhood adventures. My fear of coming off as arrogant for saying such a thing…well, that was never really my issue, was it? No, my real fear, embarrassed as I am to admit it, is

Fuck. Sorry, got interrupted there. Merchant ships have no manners. Could have started over, to be honest, but that would involve spilling my guts out on a whole new sheet a whole second time, and frankly that’s a bigger ordeal than my exposed soul can bear.

Where was I? Right, yes.

I’m afraid to lose you, Aziraphale. I’ve known you my whole life. Now I’m in a different one, and I’m not saying I regret it, but I didn’t go searching for it, you know? It just sort of fell into my lap. The shoes fit. Or the cloak. Or whatever you choose. The point is—Crowley the nobleman and Crowley the pirate both miss you. They feel wretched thinking of all the ways they have wronged you. They hope somewhere, under the stars, there’s a way they can make it up to you. 

Until that moment comes, the both of us remain,

Yours,

A.J.C.

* * *

Aziraphale hardly realizes his own reactions until they happen, sometimes; emotion can be overwhelming for him, a source of confusion and pain instead of something for him to take solace in. Case in point: When Crowley first left him behind, he didn't even realize he'd begun crying until his Queen had pointed it out.

There's no one to point it out to him this time. No one save the page he's stained with his tears.

There is a room in Aziraphale's quarters that he seldom ventures into, outside of its usual visitations during his daily routines. There are some things he sees fit to do himself, even if it might be easier not to; taking care of the plants Crowley the nobleman left behind when he ran off to be Crowley the pirate is one of them.

"Oh, my," he mutters to himself, walking into the room to take stock. His usual movement through this room—panes of glass that stretch upwards towards the ceiling, the faint shimmer of magic here and there, and row after row of beautiful, blooming, green growing things, like a caught paradise, like a kept heaven, like the most beautiful hell—is straightforward, a pass through with a watering can and whatever else the plants might need, a quick check for damage, parasites, unwanted insects, potential disease. He has a plant specialist come by once a month (or more, if necessary), and not a single one of the plants has dared to die on him.

If he didn't know better, he'd say that they were perhaps afraid of disappointing Crowley by leaving Aziraphale alone.

Now, though, he wanders through carefully, fingertips brushing overtop soft and glossy leaves alike, careful whenever they trace over the edge of a delicate bloom. He can remember, easily, they way Crowley used to be around plants. Even easier to remember are the many admonishments he himself had handed out, chastising Crowley for treating plants like they needed the fear of...well, _Crowley_ , struck into them on the regular.

"Can't believe none of us saw the piratical side of him coming," Aziraphale murmurs, dropping down into a conveniently placed chair. 

It might have simply ended there, quiet contemplation in a room full of mementos he could never bring to part. It might have, had he not had the letter crumpled in his fist, had the world not chosen that moment to make the paper rustle as it attempted to leave his loosening grip.

Aziraphale pales, seeing it. "Oh, no. Oh, _no_ , this isn't...it's not fair of him. He can't put this kind of thing on me, he can't—"

But he could, he did, and he has, and now Aziraphale—well. Now Aziraphale simply has to deal with it.

It takes him a fair few hours. He tries, but he can't bring himself to start any sooner than that—but then the words come, and he deals with it.

He does.

* * *

Crowley,

You are as good with words as you ever were. Do you never think of what you left behind? The mess, the strife, everything that needed to be handled and done? All of it fell in _my_ lap, as you so describe your...adventure, the one that took you far away from this place.

But I swore not to be resentful of what you left behind, once upon a time. Even if it meant setting aside my own feelings to focus on what must be done, I fully intend to keep that promise. So here is all I have to say to you: I feel as if I no longer know you, and with every passing day, I begin to wonder if I ever truly did. At one point in time, perhaps even before I began my replies, I wanted to get to know you.

Now I remain uncertain of what might happen if I do.

What do you think you have to make up to me, Crowley? What wrongs have left you so wretched?

It is so easy for you, as ever, to say pretty words and assume they will make your burdens ease. How better to elicit my forgiveness than to speak of all the guilt you feel while assuming that the mere mention of your wretchedness will have me stumbling over myself to offer you some kind of solace.

I am tired of being that for you, Crowley. I am tired.

Here is what I had meant to say: You need not fear losing what you do not have.

Aziraphale

* * *

He sends the letter out, then locks himself into his own room, far away from the plants, as far as he can get from everything of Anthony J. Crowley as he can, in the hopes it might block out some of the memories that haunt him even when he wakes.

And then he grieves for everything he's lost, and he waits, and he hopes.

* * *

Crowley thumbs the corner of the letter and sighs, letting the back of his head thud dully against the mast. The ink has long dried, but the venom in the text is nigh palpable: if he brings the paper closer, he can smell the woodsmoke and clove of the library where Aziraphale likes to hole himself up. He can conjure the furrow in his brow, how it makes his lips turn down at the corners. Crowley has, on many, many occasions, been responsible for this expression on the man’s otherwise cherubic face.

The last time he saw it in person, Aziraphale had been on his back, which was not something Crowley minded in the slightest. But he had also been wielding an exceptionally crafted sword, which Crowley minded a little more—for an uncomfortable part of that particular encounter, he had been close enough to its blade to read the carefully etched runes in that same deliberate lettering he’d grown up with. And he had definitely been close enough to feel its licks of flame, blue-white, against his left shoulder when Aziraphale swings it in a defensive arc.

It still makes him crack a smile, every now and then, to think of how his long-suffering pen pal hates his own sword proficiency. A little vanity in matters other than dress is perfectly fine, in his opinion.

His back twinges in protest, and Crowley kind of shimmies around at his post until his muscles unknot. From up here, he can see the broad expanse of darkening sea in every direction, dotted here and there with unassuming single-masted schooners. They drift by the _Eden_ ’s line of sight: ships that small generally don’t have sail-singers aboard, let alone crewmen trained in any magic. They remain at the mercy of the open ocean, and of men more bloodthirsty than Crowley.

Another tidbit of information Crowley tucks away for long nights: the Master of House Aziraphale is not immune to the stoking of tempers brought on by the open ocean.

* * *

You have been the best judge of character I have ever come across. I suppose I envy you, in certain ways—I’m aware of my faults, and aware of my inability to right them. Of course the onus isn’t on you, angel. I am well-versed in self-pity, if not as eloquent in admitting it and with my penmanship not as pretty.

Here is what I do have: I have a lock of your hair. Your proof, if you will. I keep it in its envelope under my pillow, and I’ve sewn it into coat pockets on occasion, if I felt brave enough. I have a scratch on the edge of my sword where yours crossed it. I have the first book of cantrips you loaned me. I have the memory of your face.

A source tells me there’s a masque three weeks from the day this will be sent. If I may be selfish, and ask to have one more thing, it would be the pleasure of your company for one night.

You may then decide, once and for all, whether you would like to get to know me.

Yours,

A.J. Crowley

* * *

“I,” says Crowley, fiddling with a button, “feel unspeakably stupid.”

The button in question has been buffed to a surprising shine, and embossed with a flower he doesn’t recognize from his study of noble houses. When he was still cutting his teeth aboard the _Eden_ , Crowley wore his family colours more often—not out of anything as simple as pride, but mostly because it was the best fit—deep reds and yellows that curled around the edges and blacks with snake-eye clasps. After much berating from the crew, he switched regular outfits and opted to ink something familiar between sigils, quietly out of sight on a patch of sunless thigh.

Lounging on his table, Beelzebub hums. “If it’s any consolation, you look unspeakably stupid.”

“Fashion is so impractical,” Crowley continues, raising his arms: they reach about shoulder height before straining, and he drops them with a grumble. “This thing is starched to the edge of the world and back.”

“You’re actually understarched there, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Fantastic.” He glares at himself in the mirror. An ugly mug glares back behind darkened lenses. They’ll be docking within the hour, by which time the moon will be offering the only natural light for miles around, but Crowley has standards to maintain.

Beelzebub rolls onto their side, shaking a tiny jar with an impressive degree of menace. “Shall I powder your hair, my lord?” [16]

“Over mine and this whole shindig’s burning refuse,” Crowley replies pleasantly.

“Court’s full of blondes in bloomers. Don’t you at least want to pretend to fit in?”

“If I wanted to fit in, Bee, I would have stayed ashore.”

There is no real template for denizens of the Gates, beyond Beelzebub’s semi-accurate generalization. This does not stop Crowley from calling to mind a particular blonde. It does funny things to his mood, which has already been souring the closer they get to the docks.

“Go on,” he says finally, “I can take it from here.”

Beelzebub hops down from the table and takes one of the lights hanging at eye level on their way out. Moonrise already; Crowley swears.

He flexes his arms, hinging at the elbows until the fabric bends a little more to his liking. There’s nothing practical about dressing like this and there never has. He’ll never be able to understand how Aziraphale pulls it off.

After a cursory glance back at the door, he opens the bottom drawer of his desk and feels around for the latch at the back. It clicks open with a sigh, and he works two fingers in a slow circle against the wood until they brush against a small parcel, carefully wrapped in gossamer-thin paper. Back around his neck it goes. 

Showtime.

[16] Crowley has, indeed, made his rejection of any hereditary titles abundantly clear over the course of his tenure at sea. _Rejection_ , in this case, is a euphemism for “disgraced stripping,” much like _abundantly clear_ is a euphemism for “tiptoed around like a leaky barrel of gunpowder until the first mate connected some unsavoury dots.”

* * *

When the letter arrives, it takes him almost a whole week to open it. When he finally does, his jaw about drops—the masque, the _exact_ event he'd been charged with keeping Crowley away from, and he's got no more than a scant week (thanks to his delays, and the delays in messages sent and delivered between the Gates and a traveling pirate ship) to dissuade Crowley from attending it.

 _Would it truly be so bad, though?_ The corners of his mind that have ever kept his most precious memories from gathering dust seem to come to life, abuzz with excitement at thought he usually doesn't dare let cross his mind. _If he came, you could keep an eye on him in person, you could keep him focused on you and away from whatever other damage he might cause. You could warn the Queen of his compatriots and keep him entirely to yourself—_

And then he forces himself to stop right there, before his thoughts cross even further into the treason they so easily seem to be flirting with. Crowley is a danger, even when he's miles and miles away, and cutting that distance between them even shorter will do nothing to help either of their causes, no matter what those causes might be.

"I have to convince him not to come," Aziraphale says, like the act of speaking the words out loud will somehow firm his resolve.

It doesn't, but then, he didn't expect it to.

It also doesn't keep him from taking a seat at his writing desk and scrawling out a hurried missive, the best he can come up with on such a short time scale, with so many tangled things weighing down his once-clear thoughts.

* * *

Crowley, you're going to get yourself _killed_.

* * *

He sends it out immediately and doesn't let himself dwell on what might happen if it doesn't reach the damn pirate in time. There are other things he needs to worry about. Helping with the setup for the ball, with everything that needs doing, with not letting himself realize that he's trying to come up with distractions to keep from dwelling on what might happen—

No. No. He will not let himself go down this road again. He will focus on what needs to be done, not simply because he needs the distraction, but because it's what's expected of him as a member of his Queen's noble class. Duty is calling him, and unlike some, he knows what's necessary to do to answer it.

* * *

And soon enough, the ball arrives.

* * *

While Aziraphale was never the type to question the Queen's ineffable ways and even more ineffable motivations, he had to...wonder, not question, of course not question, at this particular one. To stage a masque ball, when her clear intentions were to keep the likes of one Anthony J. Crowley _away_ from the proceedings...well, he could suppose it saved her some manpower, if she thought he might harm guards to while his way inside. He'll have to assume that's the case, rather than let his thoughts get caught up in the utter _insanity_ of setting up an event where it would be so easy for Crowley and his damn pirate crew to slip in unnoticed.

Besides that fact, dwelling on motivations let him keep his mind off of other things, like Crowley's last letter to him, like the fact that he had no idea if his last letter had reached Crowley in time, like—

Like the fact that the damn pirate has just taken up his hand for a dance.

“Crowley,” he hisses out as they whirl across the floor. “What in the name of Her Majesty’s reign do you think you’re doing?”

“Why Angel, I would have thought that my last letter made it quite clear. I’ve come to see you. Did you really think I’d miss out on a dance with my favourite noble?” Aziraphale notes that Crowley’s wearing that grin, the same one that used to do funny things to his heart and his knees whenever he saw it across the sparring court. It threatens to do the same now, as the dance pulls Crowley square across him. "Regardless of what...letters, or warnings, you might have put off sending me to the last minute. Really, Angel. Aren't researchers supposed to be more wordy?"

" _Wordy?_ " is about all Aziraphale can manage to say, because at the moment, his mind is caught up in the worst part of it all: That damn pirate was wearing his own family colours again, a sight Aziraphale had never thought to see. The black, red, gold—tied to the Crowley name though they might be, they work on the pirate like no one else, and yet he's somehow managed to blend himself almost seamlessly into the crowd, the delicate touches of purple in his garb allowing him to pass as another minor noble, albeit one linked somehow to the Crowley name.

It's a punch to Aziraphale's gilded tartan-clad gut. Here he is, arrayed as a noble of his standing ought to be—here they _both_ are, arrayed as they ought to have been, once upon a long time ago—

No. Not now. He could no more let "what ifs" and "maybes" overtake him than he could allow himself to soften to Crowley simply because the pirate had gone out of his way to see him. For all he knows, this is another part of the charade, the lead up to some long con or grand escapade that Aziraphale has completely failed to see coming. He should no more assume benevolent intent of Crowley than should Crowley assume the same of him. [17]

The fact of the matter was as simple as it was upsetting. They were on different sides of the fight, playing for two absolutely opposing teams, and there was no way any of his childhood dreams or childish fantasies [18] would be coming true on the dance floor tonight.

Of course, it's much, much harder to be determined about this sort of thing when said dreams and fantasies have spotted you across the floor and made their way through the various whirling couples right to you, without the slightest flicker of hesitation.

"So what do you say, Angel?" Crowley's voice is a thing to get drunk on, honeyed whiskey and bright eyes, and much as Aziraphale aches to oblige whatever request Crowley will make, he's equally certain he shouldn't. Theirs is a dangerous game to be playing, even if Crowley doesn't yet know it. "May I have this dance?"

But, well. "You can hardly ask to have it when you've already come and taken it, you pirate," Aziraphale murmurs, hoping against hope that it might dissuade him.

Instead, Crowley sweeps down into a bow with the next shift in the music and he _stays_ there, tilting his head just enough to look up at Aziraphale, his would-be partner. It's too enticing; absolutely, unfairly alluring. Aziraphale can hardly fault himself for this, not when Anthony J. Crowley is so obviously a master of temptation. [19]

"I've already given you half a dance," he mutters, trying to talk himself out of it. "Regardless of the fact that you technically stole it. Scoundrel."

"You're drawing attention to us," Crowley says, smirking from his bow. "Unless that's what you want? An audience—"

Aziraphale moves swiftly, tugging Crowley up into the next movement for the dance as gracefully as one might, under such circumstances and dire threats. "I swear—"

"You don't, though. Not much, at any rate."

The next pass of the dance brings them far too close for Aziraphale's comfort, especially given the way Crowley's eyes seem to gleam. "That's because I was raised as a gentleman."

"So was I," Crowley says, deftly turning around him, never a step out of place. "Guess it didn't take."

"I suppose it did not." He'll give the pirate this much; Crowley's situational awareness is impressive. Each turn they make on the dance floor leads them slightly more out of the way, slightly less in a main line of sight—and as if reacting to Aziraphale noticing what he's doing, Crowley makes a move that tucks them securely away behind one of the ballroom's largest columns. "Subtle."

"Aren't I, though?" It's exactly the kind of thing Aziraphale would expect Crowley to say, in exactly the way he would usually expect Crowley to say it, but.

But what he can see of Crowley's eyes is _wrong_ , different, not lighting up the way Crowley's eyes usually light up when he teases Aziraphale, not shining with that mixture of cocked up confidence and trembly false bravado.

Instead, there is dullness, and just beneath that, a flicker of desperation.

For the first time since he read Crowley's letter, Aziraphale realizes that Crowley may have meant what he said in that last letter—that if he turns Crowley away tonight, the pirate will never again come knocking at his door.

"Crowley," he starts, and Crowley—Crowley, Crowley, Crowley, Aziraphale is starting to think the man's name is the only damn word his mind knows how to say—shakes his head.

"Angel," he says, and _there_ is the fond caress that his mental voice (the one that sounds suspiciously like Crowley and only appears when he's reading a letter, at least) supplies to the pet name Crowley prefers to give him, "I asked for the pleasure of your company for one night. I won't seek an answer until the end of it."

"See," Aziraphale says, and his voice might threaten a tremble but his expression does not, "this is why I said you're going to get yourself killed."

Then he whirls Crowley back out onto the dance floor, one hand at the small of the damn pirate's back as he _finally_ takes over the lead, the way he always used to when they were boys playing at better manners in the lessons their fathers forced them to take. It's a nostalgic, soothing sort of thing, for the both of them alike, and it's easy to let focus and panic and fear and uncertainty drift off on the luxurious waves of music that roll over them in rounds.

* * *

Two dances and three songs later finds them at a table full of decadent food, one that Aziraphale has caught Crowley eyeing for at least a song and a half. "Hungry, were we?"

"I don't know about _we_ , but this spread beats what a ship usually keeps aboard," Crowley quips, and Aziraphale rolls his eyes.

"You still have my book of cantrips. Are you really saying you don't remember enough about my orchard—or your own plants [20]—to snitch a few fresh fruits here and there?" He pokes Crowley in the ribs, giving him a rather speculative look. "That might explain things. The scurvy you've so obviously contracted, I mean—it's probably rotted away at your brains."

And that makes Crowley _laugh_ and it's so blessedly like it was years before, like he never left, like maybe Aziraphale knows him after all, and—

Well, alright.

The guards pointing their swords at them (Crowley, more accurately, Aziraphale just sort of happens to be caught in the collateral damage zone) isn't exactly a new thing either. In fact, they're both quite used to being chased down by guards, and, though Aziraphale would be loathe to admit it (see: The Incident he would prefer that everyone forget), he does get rather swept up in the nostalgia of Crowley taking him hostage during a grand party yet _again_.

"Nobody but me move and the noble doesn't get hurt." He pauses, glancing down at Aziraphale. "I'm well aware that was likely grammatically inaccurate, but I also do not care. If you'll pardon me, then—" And then he walks out of the ballroom, Aziraphale's neck in the crook of one arm and the tip of a knife pressed to Aziraphale's kidney, as if he hasn't a damn care in the world.

* * *

"I told you so," Aziraphale tells him, tucked away in the secret cove by the secret harbour where Crowley has oh-so-secretly docked his ship. "You're going to get yourself killed."

"But I didn't die, though," Crowley retorts. He taps the apple he's holding—those cantrips, Crowley's tree, the one under Aziraphale's care—against the apple Aziraphale's holding, and gives him another smirk. "So technically you can't tell me so about anything."

Aziraphale scoffs, taking another bite. "I'm allowed to tell you so about everything for the rest of forever, after what I've seen tonight."

"Really now."

"Yes, really."

"To do that you'd have to know what I've been up to. What I've been wrong about lately. All the stupid things I've said with no regard for who might hear or judge me."

"I suppose so."

"I haven't asked yet, Angel."

This technicality gives Aziraphale pause. He never truly thought that Crowley would actually ask when he so obviously already had his answer. "Well...go on, then."

"Have you decided, Angel? Would you like to get to know me?"

Aziraphale looks him in the eyes—the ones he so rarely shows, the ones only Aziraphale himself seems to get to see—and he smiles.

* * *

Somewhere, there’s a beautiful city that overlooks the sea. Some say it came out of nowhere, some say it was always there, and the people who live there all know that cities like these are built with love and time, not simply made in a day.

If you happen to be in the neighbourhood, there are a few places you might want to visit. A little bookshop, where you can’t buy any of the available books; a cafe with sweets and treats and spices, brought from all corners of the land; and a home with a path that leads right to the water, to a dock where a ship comes back again and again, time after time.

You’ll like it there, as so many have before you, and you ought to know, as so many did before you—they’d be very happy for a visit, and even happier if you should choose to stay.

* * *

Of course, this is not yet that time, this is not quite that place, and they are not quite the couple who live there, together, in what they've made their home.

All you need to know of this time, this place, and the couple they are now, though, is this:

Aziraphale looks Crowley in the eyes, and he smiles—and he says _yes_.

[17] The appearance of this particular thought had caused an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Aziraphale's stomach that he, of course, absolutely refused to interrogate. Had he bothered to at the time, it might have saved him and everyone else in the kingdom a great deal of trouble.

[18] Or adolescent delusions, as he was prone to calling certain iterations of his more inappropriate thoughts.

[19] If you will, gentle reader, picture summer briefly, a bright summer, so quick it might be no more than the passing flit of a butterfly's wing as two boys race through an orchard that's shed its blooms in favour of slowly growing fruit, one reaching up high overhead as they run ever onwards, towards golden-green fields. In his hand, the green fruit continues to grow, rounding out and ripening until they crash together in an arrival and he is left with his hand outstretched, offering a sweet symphony of fall colours in the heat—the heart—of summer itself.

[20] Among Crowley's favourite things to cultivate had been miniature plants and dwarf fruit trees. To Aziraphale's great surprise, they tended to produce better fruit than anything else he'd ever seen—especially the ones that bore apples.


End file.
